So what to do next? Go to the theater and find out about Signor Scarpelli’s residence or visit the press that published The Dramatic Mirror magazine? It was not the sort of weather to go rushing around any more than necessary. The humidity today made it feel like wading through a Turkish bath. Actually I had never been in a Turkish bath since they are strictly reserved for gentlemen, but I had read about them. Every step seemed an effort. Clothing stuck to me in an unbecoming manner. I could feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck and my hat felt like a deadweight on my head. Patchin Place was so close by. I could go home, have a cool splash of water, and a cold drink. I stood up, tempted, then turned resolutely to my task. Theater and magazine were not too far from each other—one on the Bowery, the other on Pearl Street.

I decided on the magazine first. Theater folk are notoriously late risers and I’d probably find the place deserted until at least eleven. So I caught the trolley south down Broadway. Although it was crowded, its sides were open and it was more pleasant traveling than in the closed carriages of the El. As we neared the southern tip of Manhattan we picked up a hint of cooler breeze coming in from the ocean. As I alighted I stood, breathing in the air with a hint of sea tang and picturing myself standing on the cliffs at home, feeling that cool, salty wind in my face. How long ago that all seemed now, as if it was a distant dream.

As I went into the office of The Dramatic Mirror a loud clatter of machinery was coming up from the basement, so that I had to shout my request to the young woman who came to greet me.

“An article by Houdini?” she shouted back. “Yes, he often writes for us.”

“Do you have his latest articles here for me to look at?”

“May I ask what this is about?” she asked.

I decided this was a time for straight talk. “You’ve heard that he has disappeared and has probably been kidnapped,” I said.

“Yes, I read it in the papers. Shocking, isn’t it? Whatever next?”

“I am a detective, working with Houdini’s family and the police on trying to trace him. We’d appreciate any help you can give us.” I produced my card that read, “P. Riley Detective Agency. M. Murphy Co-Owner.” I had taken the liberty of having the cards printed after Paddy Riley died and I was left holding the baby, so to speak. So I wasn’t really co-owner, just owner by default.

She looked at the card, then at me. “Wait here please,” she said. “I’ll get Mr. Goldblum.”